Who are You ?
by poolstorybro
Summary: Dillon Mitchell's dream is to become a photojournalist. She takes a trip to Bangkok with her friends to see something new, to have an adventure, to learn and discover more about the world, but the only thing Dillon would come to learn is that some things should remain undiscovered.
1. Sitting Ducks

disclaimer: there are sections in this that are fairly flowery, description wise. I know this, it's intentional, it will become more story and less description just go with the flow, yo.

We're all so used to focussing our attention on _others_.  
Everyone does it, whether it's _subconscious_ or intentional. I'm not talking about being judgemental, merely _observational_. Perhaps you could call that a form of judgement though. We don't realise it, don't _discuss_ it because it makes us feel guilty. Makes us feel like we're bad people, when really, we're only human. Although who can say that's a good thing. You may not even realise it, but the faces you pass, you're placing them into social classes, the rich, the poor, the middle. The subconscious _decision_ that one of the two girls passing you is larger than the other, or thinner. You're brunette, and you're blonde. Judgement doesn't necessarily have to be considered as a **negative** thing. Perhaps it signifies that you're _organised_. An orderly person who has specific labels for specific groups of people.  
But my point is, we spend so much time distracting ourselves with _our_ judgement (although we will blame it on society for we don't see reason to take responsibility) of everyone else, so that we may avoid evaluating and placing that judgement on our own individual selves.

And even if you have already placed what you believe to be a judgement of your own self, you forget to consider your capabilities. Who you could be, as well as who you currently are. If pushed, how _far_ would you go? How much will power do you have? You forget change is possible. And change holds a certain similarity to judgement. Both stand on the _tightrope_ walk, the thin line between positive and negative. Between sane, and _in_ sane.

* * *

The sky was an azure canvas, stretching far beyond contemplation, a humble realm – accommodating pillows of cotton which floated with a sensitive elegance only the most ethereal of deer were likely to understand. Were there a ladder to such a height, Dillon was sure with each step-up, time would slow down. The clouds go about leisurely in their mid-day waltz, liable to utter shock were they to be shown a clock. Topaz ocean rippled cunningly, sheer power of deadly manipulation hidden beneath its shimmering beauty. Glimmering glory, the locals' exaggerations had not been so – exaggerated, after all. The distant island was decorated by menacing rocks, jutting from wave graced sand, horizon partially consumed by looming mountains. Beaches welcomed those curious enough, palm trees a unique emerald beneath the merciless glow of the sun, some rays biting through the clouds to highlight the island in a show of its range of impressive colours. A visible jungle promised undiscovered secrets, knowledge. Captivating, so much beauty cooed to her inner photographer, yet her gut still seemed to twist. It was that trance-inducing mystery, the thrilling notion of it all that foreshadowed fatality. Pins and needles in her feet remind her of where she stands, meters from the settling sea foam, the subconscious twiddling of her toes leading her deeper into the sun stroked sand which explained the slow growing burn against porcelain skin.

"You done taking pictures yet?" A voice called out from behind her.

Cerulean hues momentarily disappear, she blinks heavy – thoughtful, before turning to face her friends; two of the three sat a few spaces apart, the third, Harrison, standing nearer to her side. His expression was creased ever so slightly, apologetic for he knew how Dillon disliked being jerked from her dazes. "Yeah," softly spoken, her voice has a unique quality she was often complimented on. She's still distant, it's short lived however, a smile lifting plump, pale lips. "So that's our island, huh?"

"I mean I don't _see_ any other islands," Levi replied, puffing on the joint balanced between his thumb and middle finger.

Dillon rolled her eyes. "Man, I told you to quit the sarcasm when you're buzzed. There's islands fucking _everywhere_." Levi only snorted before taking another puff, slicked back hair battling the vague breeze. Black with an undercut, the top section was only amplified – one piece on the right side of his head falling out of place. It was like bringing an Italian mobster wannabe around with you, except with an American accent.

"He say when he's getting here, Jesse?" Harrison asked.

"Said around twelve." Dillon had been significantly in charge of the planning due to her organisational skills (she was the girl), but Jesse was in charge of looking at reviews and meeting their guides. He was the oldest, twenty-six fine years of experience, which – compared to the others was only one to three years older, but Dillon still insisted. Jesse's father had worked with the military, and so she was sure the guy had a better awareness of stranger danger and what not.

"It's twelve now," Dillon sighed, eyeing the gold rimmed watch adorning her wrist.

" _Around_ twelve," Jesse emphasised his words this time.

"Levi, can you put that shit out before he gets here? Don't want this guy getting a bad impression or whatever," Harrison insisted, brown hues eyeing the joint.

Levi huffed, scrunching his nose up in disapproval before dropping it to the sand. A foot rolled over it several times and Dillon scoffed. Well aware that the asshole wouldn't get up himself, she stormed over, plucked the burnt out joint up from the ground and walked over to the nearest garbage bin. Levi didn't really care for nature, not like Dillon did. Working towards nature-related photojournalism had brought her closer to what the world had to offer, and she was slowly falling in love. She knew that had she left that joint where Levi had discarded it, she'd be haunted by the image of a seagull or fish choking on it for the rest of the day.

They'd arrived an hour early, mainly to take in the scenery. Jesse's friend Doug had recommended a boat ride around the distant islands. "Yeah my man, you can go look at the sharks and all sorts of shit! Obviously not swimming with them but you're here t' get fucked up, right?" He'd laughed. Making eye contact with her specifically, he added, " _perfect_ for photo ops. Hey! I actually know a guy with one of the boat companies. Want me t' hook you guys up? Friends 'n' family discount an' all that."

Jesse knew the guy, somehow. The buzzcut and slender yet muscular form had her questioning just how they'd met, as that wasn't the type of guy _buff_ Jesse tended to hang around. Then again, he hung around with Levi so it would make sense. Either way, they were going to board a little boat to go and look at what Bangkok's ocean had to offer. She couldn't deny her excitement. This really would be an awesome opportunity for photos. Besides, they hadn't come here just to get high and drunk.  
Harrison had suggested the trip, well aware of how life's stresses were weighing down on his friends' shoulders. Harry was on his break from University, his studies mentally frying him. He'd been working hard to get into his desired career, teaching English, but his goal was to teach at one of those private and exclusive schools. The ones where the _posh_ kids go. Harrison had attended one back in London and ever since he developed a crush on his English teacher, he'd aspired to be just like her. Dillon had always _teased_ him about it. The two had grown up together. She'd met him in high school, or _secondary school_. He'd moved from Manhattan, NYC at around four and had travelled to England with his parents. He didn't remember much about America, but a part of him was desperate to return – with Dillon. When she turned twenty, Harrison had convinced her to come with him. He was twenty-two and had previously had a stable job that supplied him with the sufficient funds to go and stay out there. Having rich parents _also_ helped.  
The two moved over to the land of the free, _so they say_ , and Dillon rented an apartment with Harry, who she considered a best friend.  
After a short time in Manhattan, they met Jesse, a future law graduate who took an interest in crime-related topics. Jesse already knew Levi, and so they were shortly acquainted with him. Levi was a part time model and had just finished studying fashion, which he held an intense interest in. He always suggested items for Dillon to try on and the funny thing was, Levi was as straight as a ruler. It didn't take long for the four to form a close bond, and three years later, they stood in Bangkok, embarking on their wild adventure. It hadn't been very wild so far, however. Dillon was relieved either way. It was nice to break from life's _hounding_ necessities.

Once again, she was jerked from her daze by the sound of a rumbling engine. It was heard before it was seen, but swiftly appeared and ghosted the island's shore. Dillon wasn't a boat expert, but it could be compared to one of those _speed boats_. It's strange to her, for she's sure this was a tourism related company – those usually had some form of advertisement on the side. This boat was simply black, no additions to the paint job and no signs printed on. Her camera was lifted, and she quickly snapped a picture, merely to do some research later, on who the company actually was. Doug hadn't really told them all that much. Besides, if the trip was any good she was sure she'd have to _recommend_ it to people later.

"That our guy?" Levi drawled.

"How about we go and _ask_?" Harrison suggested, sarcasm hinted in his tone.

Jesse was first to start towards the boat, followed by Dillon and then the other two. Sure, her gut was still twisted, her nerves a far cry from calm, but it was probably just excitement, and she knew if she refused to do it she'd regret it.

"Excuse me?" Jesse called out to the man at the boat's wheel.

The man stood, his expression as solid as his muscular form, clad with black skin. Neutral, he raises a hand as a form of acknowledgement.

"We're waiting for a boat ride. Are you –" Jesse was interrupted by the man's thick accent, west African undoubtedly.

"You are here from Doug, yes?" He responded, red tank top hanging loosely from his top half.

Jesse paused, looking to his friends and then back. "Uh, yeah! We good to get in?"

The boat driver stepped into the shallows and walked to them. "You pay now."

Dillon's conscience scrunched its face up at how blunt the man was being. For someone interacting with customers daily, answering their questions – of all nationalities, it's surprising he doesn't appear to know much English. Either that, or he can only be bothered to give short responses.

She wasn't a skeptic usually, but the discomfort crackling over her skin led her to questioning.

"Sure man, how much are we talking?" Harry inquired.

"Four thousand four hundred baht," the man stated.

"Holy _shit_ ," Levi, who was clearly still high, howled out.

Harrison waved a hand at him. "It's cool man, that's like a hundred pounds in England. One hundred 'n' thirty something in dollars. That's cheap for the four of us!"

"Not four!" The man corrected harshly. " _Each_."

Harrison's eyes widened. "Woah, hold on, one hundred _each_? I thought Doug said he could hook us up!"

"That's fuckin' _robbery_ ," Levi grumbled.

"One hundred _each_ or no boat," the man responded.

Jesse sighed. "Could you just give us one second man?"

The other nodded, arms crossing over his broad chest, impatience lingering in his stance. Jesse turned to his friends. "You said you wanted to do something cool, right? And hey, for that price it's gotta be pretty fucking good, right?"

Dillon rubbed the back of her head, blonde hair tied up into a tight pony tail. She would've worn it down but it travels down to just above her hips and on a boat ride – I'm sure you can imagine. Levi was right, holy _shit_. It did seem overpriced but then again, they _were_ tourists. "I'm in," she breathed, hoping she wouldn't regret the pricey spend. It's for your album, she reminded herself, but the tension in her shoulders didn't seem to fade.

Harrison glanced to Dillon and then to Jesse before nodding. "Yeah, me too."

It was clear that Jesse was already in, and Dillon wondered whether he'd go alone if the rest of them refused. Levi rolled his eyes and gave a disgruntled groan. "Yeah, yeah _fine_."

Wallets were pulled from their pockets and they forked over their quarter of the money into the hands of the thief guide. Robbed blind, she'd never understood the expression until now.

"Can we have your name?" Dillon asked. It was only good sense to call someone by their name, although she had a couple of _other_ names for this guy.

"Felipe," the man declared. All too happily, he stuffed the money into his pocket before stepping back out into the shallows. "Come," he gestured for them to follow. She couldn't help but feel little to no surprise when he didn't assist in helping them onto the boat. Dillon clambered in on her own, rejecting Harrison's offered hand but thanking him afterwards. She was capable, and even though she knew Harry didn't mean it as any form of doubt, but it was just a _personal_ thing.

"Sit down," Felipe commanded, turning the key in the ignition, causing the engine to snarl back to life.

"Do we – do we get any life jackets?" Dillon queried.

"No," was the sharp response she got, followed by a blunt "hold on," before the engine revved and they were moving.

At some point during that, she'd seated herself beside Levi who was holding on tight enough for Dillon to doubt his 'I don't give a fuck' attitude as _real_. The sudden change in breeze was a shock to her skin, the air now colder as it tore through trailing strands of hair. As promised, they were taken further out into the deeper waters and now that she was on top of the great blue she was suddenly aware of just how deep and big it was. Terror gripped at her, forcing her hands to grip just that little bit tighter onto the rope on the edge. She could see fish now, darting about beneath ripples of glittering blue. It was only a matter of time before the bigger fish appeared and that was also a factor of her current fear. It was thrilling fear, knowing that – were she to fall in – there was the minor potential that she could get grabbed by a shark. No other boats could be seen at this point. Not on this section of water.  
Dillon raised her camera and snapped numerous photos, some of the waves springing from beneath the boat, some of the island now that they were closer to it, even one of the boat driver's right upper half, skin glistening with sweat beneath the heat, the flash of his red tank a nice addition. Observational. A keen eye for detail, one might say. The boat slows, eventually coming to a stop and everyone is silent, most likely rendered incapable of speech due to the risky ride. The chill of fast colliding air is swept away by the sun's rays and it doesn't take long before someone calls out "shark!"

"Where?" Levi asks, frantically searching the water. Dillon immediately spots it, a vague rise in the water, closing in on their position and she wonders what's going through the shark's mind. Probably as much curiosity as there is in hers.

"Over there," she whispers, giving Levi a nudge – pointing to the fin. She snapped a picture, zoomed in close enough to see its eyes, black voids of vacancy as it hunted. So many rumours, and yet this creature was only doing what everyone else did. It was surviving. She'd always heard about people being attacked by sharks. Eaten by them and dragged down to drown by them. It hadn't really crossed her mind that, technically, it was the victims' fault. Humans invade nature without hesitation, but _retaliate_ when nature tries vice versa.  
Everyone's captivated by the experience, watching the shark's every move whilst watching carefully for other movement in the water. It was difficult to distinguish animal movement from the waves and so every now and again when water splashed against the side of the boat, gazes flickered nervously.

Felipe, however, seemed completely disenchanted, a cigarette protruding from his lips as he lit the end and puffed it. Dillon was confused, more than anything. He probably did these trips numerous times a day, but she still didn't understand how anyone could become bored with scenery like this. With _animals_ like this. She didn't think her fascination would ever cease, were she in Felipe's position.

"Will we be journeying further out?" She asked hopefully. They'd better be, having paid _that_ kind of money.

"We wait here for a while," Felipe replied. His every word came across aggressive, like that bartender or barista who's impatient whilst you're listing your orders.

"Wait here?" Levi repeated, irritation creeping across his expression. Levi wasn't a bad guy. He was fun to hang around with, but he tended to become a bit of a drag – after a drag, ironically.

"Listen, Felipe, we were told you'd drive us around the islands. That's what we paid _all that money_ for," Harry reasoned.

Felipe snorted, taking another puff of his cigarette. "Driving scares sharks," he justified. "We sit, they come."

Dillon clutched onto her camera and held it close. Obvious testosterone tension was rising amongst the men, and she decided to bring herself away from it, zooming in on the nearby island to scout the land. She didn't expect to see anything, hopeful to stumble across a bird or maybe even something a little bigger but what she _definitely_ didn't expect was to see _people_. Men in blue tops, their faces decorated with some sort of black markings. Her brows rose, interest piquing, along with her voice. "Hey Felipe, who're they?"

Felipe's attention was averted from the previous tension and onto Dillon, who pointed to the distance. "Who?" He grunted, squinting.

"There's a couple of guys wearing blue. Are they tourists too or? Wait – can we _go_ to the island?" She sat up a little taller, waving to the people in the distance. They seemed to see her, their gazes directed at the boat, but they didn't wave back – only pointed.

"Stop that!" Felipe barked.

Dillon jumped at the order, her hand shooting back down to her side. "I'm sorry I – don't understand? Why can't I wave at them?" She exchanged gazes with her friends in question.

Felipe's attention diverted to the distance and Dillon followed his line of sight. She spotted a boat, closing in on their position and she couldn't understand why they were coming to _their_ boat. Was it another guide checking in on Felipe? Maybe Felipe had called someone because Levi kept glaring or? No that couldn't be it, Dillon hadn't seen him raise anything other than his cigarette!

"Um, who's that?" Her brows furrowed, worry lines evident.

The four turned to look in that direction, Dillon using her camera to zoom in on the boat and the faces amongst it. Similar to Felipe, they wore red tops, but further study showed white markings on the shirts. She couldn't quite make out what the markings were, they resembled a skull or something but that would be strange for guides, right? There were quite a few of them too! Why were there so many on one boat? Didn't they each, individually have a boat? Questions sprang to mind, that maybe Felipe was an _imposter_? And these were the real guides coming to get him! She glanced back to Felipe and noticed how he didn't seem concerned in the _slightest_. In fact, his arm muscles twitched _restlessly_.

"What the fuck is _happening_?" Harry hissed.

"I don't – " Dillon's concentration cut her off as she studied the guide's some more. They were muscular, like Felipe, all seemed to be men and they wore cargo pants. She lifted the camera sight a little more to find she couldn't make out any of the men's faces, red and khaki bandanas covering from their faces from the nose down. One man however, wasn't wearing a bandana. She could make out the unmistakable mohawk atop his otherwise bald head, but other than that— panic struck her right in the gut, the twist that had settled there now churning – tightening. "Oh my _god_!" Guns. She'd spotted their guns, the _AK47s_ in their grip. "Guns! They've got _guns_!" Why would they have _guns_? Bandanas and skulls and! It **clicks**. It comes together in a swift wave and she's overwhelmed as she sees the other boat is only a few metres away. These _weren't_ guides. Panic shoots through everyone else and Jesse tries to find reason as Levi starts shouting blame at Felipe and Harrison tries to get a hold of Dillon because she's gone pale and looks as though she may topple into the water with the sharks. She rises to her feet, wobbling against the boat's unsteady movements.

Felipe reaches for something beneath his seat and pulls out a glock, aiming it directly at Dillon. "Sit the _fuck down_!" He snarled, time seeming to slow down, and she wonders if she's climbed that ladder, wonders if she's in the sky because everyone's **screaming** , shouting and she's yanked back down to her seat.

"Afternoon _Fucks_ , I will be your guide today, any questions please _refrain_ from fucking asking them. I fuckin' hate questions," someone speaks, his voice drowning in and out of Dillon's mind and she feels drugged, panic _searing_. The other men were now aiming their guns at them, keeping them herded like sheep but Levi jumps to his feet and launches a punch directly into one of the stranger's faces, sending them backwards into the water with a shout. Another grabs Levi and tugs him to the other boat, drawing a dagger which is then pressed to Levi's throat.

"Move and I'll _cut_ you!" His capturer growled. Levi ceased his rebellion and fell still in the other's violent grip. Numerous other men moved in, securing Harrison and Jesse with ease but Dillon wasn't having it. She rose to her feet once more, scrambling to the very _edge_ of the boat.

"Don't fucking **touch** me!" She spat, terror causing her ears to ring, blood pounding like the hooves of a stampede against the ground.

A hand tightened around her wrist, _snatching_ her freedom but only for a few seconds before she strikes out, kicking the man in the abdomen – sending him stumbling back. Dillon was a slender girl. She possessed some muscle, but overall, she was easier than most to _grab and snatch_. That's why she'd taken self-defence classes, so that even when her size and weight was a predicament, there was a way to escape dangerous situations. Maybe she couldn't necessarily _escape_ this one without being shot, drowned or killed by sharks, but like **hell** would she let these assholes lay a _hand_ on her.

"I _like_ this one. She's got some real fucking _charisma_ ," she realises now that it's the man with the mohawk speaking, his accent overlaid with Spanish descent.

"Fuck you!" She choked, adrenaline fighting the newfound weakness causing her to tremble.

" _Later_ ," a smug smirk stretched across his lips. "I'm a little busy right now, Chica."

Her stomach plunges into a whole new sensation of nausea. It had been right all along. Gut feelings and all but she'd _ignored_ it. Justified it.

"Felipe would you fucking _secure_ her or do I need t' fuckin' do everything myself, huh?" The man scowled, pointing to Dillon.

Felipe approached and Dillon's right-hand curls into a fist, preparing to fight when **–** agony violently _throbbed_ across the back of her head, stomach jerking as she stood in place, unmoving. Something had hit her. Her subconscious squeezes her shoulder, it knows _long_ before _she_ does. The butt of a gun had contacted her skull and her left hand released her camera, sending it clattering to the floor of the boat.

All emotion vanished, dissipated like the steam from a kettle into the open air and she stumbles, one more step which sends her over the edge of the boat. Her friends _scream_ after her, she can hear the way Harrison's voice strains. He's useless right now, held by someone nearly twice the size of him in muscle and there's just _no way_ he can get to her.  
Water splashes around her and her vision darkens, sounds echoing in the blackness of her skull and she finds herself sinking, the sensation beyond what she'd ever bothered to consider. Something swims beside her, smooth skin meeting her arm and she knows it's a shark. Again, her subconscious is an unseen mime. Bubbles tickle plump lips as breath leaves her, death dawning. She'd be scared, terrified were she not in a state of _paralysis_. Sensory deprivation, she needed none of the equipment to feel detached – she already _was_. Her vision fades at the sight of an approaching hand, the scruff of her crop top being grasped. Then, she's _out cold_.


	2. No Vacation Here

Note : next chapter is up ! I'm hoping people will enjoy this as much as I do. Feedback is encouraged, it motivates me a lot!

* * *

You never considered things could come to this. Never anticipated _more_ than what you already knew. Change is a chance, that final thread you hang from so that you don't fall. But do you take the _leap_? We spend our whole lives holding back. Imagine how quickly you could succeed if you just take what you want. The fall can be scary, _deadly_ even, but it could lead you to so much more – if you dare to _let go_.

* * *

Screaming, sobbing, the pained sound of desperation – the **begging**. Even during her sleep, it echoes through her mind, a dull throb unforgiving at the back of her skull. Eyes remain sealed, but her body notes the sun too has left for rest, the day's heat exchanged for an early evening draft, bitter – though the air tastes like she's being held captive with at least another _thirty_ bodies. Fingers twitch, hands positioned above her head and she grazed a pole with numbed digits. She tried to wriggle her hands, but pain sliced at her wrists.

Blinking, blue eyes came to life and attempted to adjust to the lighting. Edging on night time, the sky had darkened to a heavy indigo, puffing clouds of ash grey – the moon the glow of its cigarette butt. Immediately, she assesses the situation, turning her gaze upwards. Her hands were tied, what felt like _welded_ together, by frayed rope. The panic was swiftly returning, noting how she was attached to a bar of bamboo.  
Further observation revealed the _cage_ she was trapped in, like an _animal_. Her legs were free so she shifted, naked thigh brushing against the ground. Was she sat on dirt? It was a change from the sand, although she could feel grains still trapped in her shorts and the vague grating with each movement was uncomfortable to say the least.

Crimson stained the floor, drag marks leading outside of what appeared to be the door – chained tight, of course. Dillon _had_ seen blood before, stumbled upon the local cat's feast in her back yard, but this was no little amount of bird blood. This was something else, _someone_ else's. The pungent scent of iron coursed through the air and her stomach churned. She turned her leg to the side, looking over the skin that had touched the blood and sure enough, porcelain skin was stained with vibrant red. She choked on a squeal, something covering her mouth keeping her from being able to produce sound. Scrambling back, her head hit the bamboo bar and she tensed, groaning as the dull throb in the back of her head ignited into something vicious. It felt as though she'd been beaten with a fucking baseball bat!

"Fuck!" Her muffled sob was almost _entirely_ muted, and she reduced her movements to nothing, leaving the pain to simmer down. Pain bit down her forearms and her biceps twitched, a reflex to the tenderness. How long had she been _tied up_ like this? Drowsy still, the sandpaper texture to her lips had her wondering how long it'd been since she last consumed any liquid. It was only a matter of time before her stomach started to cry too. She remembered the sun, the _hot_ sun beaming down and the sea. The sound of splashing water, a chill slithering down her right arm because she remembers something _touching_ her there.  
She remembers Levi _launching_ into an attack, the colour red, vertigo and – her friends! Harrison, Jesse, Levi! Frantic, Dillon looked around, both hopeful she'd see her friends, but also that they _weren't_ there suffering with her. She couldn't see anyone. There was an empty cage a few metres to her right and another further north in the corner of wherever the fuck she was being kept. Someone was in the other cage, but their body was slumped, seemingly curled into the foetus position and blood coated the floor around him. She didn't recognise him, however. Her conscience demanded she assume him as dead. This man, she was looking at a dead person. She was more than likely seated in another's _spilled_ blood and her stomach jerks but she swallows, well aware that were she to vomit _now_ , she'd choke to death on it – though something tells her that's not the worst thing this island had to offer.

Opposite her was some kind of building, the front half missing. It was similar to a shed or garage, open to all and from the ceiling hung three bodies by their necks, the sound of rope creaking _licking_ at her ears. Within only a few minutes, she'd already seen three, maybe even four **dead** people.

Oh _god_ , she thought. _What the fuck_. Tears threatened to dribble from burning eyes, but she did her best to hold them back. She didn't want someone to stumble upon her crying. To appear weak in front of her captors was the _last_ thing she needed.

Attention snaps to the corner she couldn't see 'round, eyes wide as she listens. The sound of footsteps echoes throughout the small holding area, boots scuffing against the dirt and oh _fuck_ , someone's coming. For her? She didn't know, but someone _was_ coming. She wanted to scream, wanted to kick and thrash her feet against the floor and bars to rattle some noise, but she didn't. If, whoever was coming, was her captor, it would be like digging her own grave.

A man turns the corner, she recognises him, the mohawk atop his head, the red tank top that hangs from his upper body. Dillon scans him, noting how he doesn't appear to have any weapons attached to him. He wasn't incredibly tall, taller than Dillon but only by around three inches. His frame was muscular, his shoulders standing out most, broad chest reminding her of a bullet proof vest. Unarmoured, and yet this man had a quality that made him look _untouchable_. A terrible scar stretched from his left brow and up to the centre of his skull. It made her inwardly withdraw. Sure, it was ironic, the bad guy having a badass scar and all – but she felt, _momentarily_ , sympathetic. It must've _hurt_! Her conscience sneered. He probably deserved it. Dillon scolded herself for the remorse, instinctive as it was.

"It would seem your day took a lil' bit of a turn, no?" It _was_ the guy from the boat. _Afternoon Fucks_. She recognised the accent, his honeyed tone – slick with amusement. "How're you feeling, Chica?"

Like _shit_ , she wanted to respond but remembered her lips were covered – saving her the embarrassment of muffled hissing. Every little ounce of dignity counted here. Cerulean gaze, ringed with soft, pale skin was innocent of both sleep deprivation and drugs, unlike the man before her, who's eyes appeared to be drowning in a pool of unnaturally and unhealthily darkened skin. He looked ill, in some ways. Like he hadn't slept for years, and those years were made up by the persistent use of some gnarly drugs. She felt dirty, and he _looked_ dirty, the thought of even a touch from him making her stomach crease in disgust. Dillon only glared in response, her delicate eyes capable of whipping up a furious storm, for hatred was all that was communicated through them.

Her gaze was held, surprisingly, and he dared to look her over – completely aware that he currently had all her attention. She watched as his eyes drifted down and then up, studying her and it makes her want to thrash again. _Stop that_!

"If it's anything like how you _look_ , then I'm guessing not fucking good, eh?"

If it's possible, her brows furrow even more. It wounds her, for what reason she doesn't quite know.

He reaches into his pockets, searching for something and hums when he finds what he's looking for. A card is pulled into view and Dillon tenses. Was that her driving licence? Had they gone through all her _shit_? More panic tightens around her throat when she realises her camera is missing. It's not important right now, but her camera was something else. It meant so fucking much to her. A gift from her parents, the last memory she had left of her father and it's gone! She'd lost it! These _animals_ , they'd probably stolen and sold it on by now. Her heart drops.

"Dillon Mitchell," he says, and she snaps out of her daze. That was _her_ name. "Dillon. _Dillon_ ," he repeats, enunciating. She'd never heard it with a Spanish accent before. It made her want to shift again, but she didn't understand why. "You know, I always thought that was a boy's name, but you make it work somehow." Pause, near silence except for the man's childish _tongue clicking_. "From Manhattan, huh? The _big apple_ , so you say. You _Americans_ , you think _New York_ is big…" Words trail off into a mumble before he gives a dark chuckle, lowering himself to a squat. "See, conversation is only fucking _polite_ an' I-" he pauses, glances over her face and then rolls his eyes. "Fuck, I always _forget_ about the _tape_!"

A hand comes through the bars and approaches her face, which causes her to recoil and pull back – although there's nowhere for her to go. Instead, she moves her head, left to right in attempt to avoid his grasp but this fails when he clutches her chin, _painfully_ rough. "Would you fucking sit _still_? I'm doing you a _favour_ right now, okay? Don't make me _break_ this pretty jaw, Hermana." The touch alone freezes her to the spot, entire body tense as his fingers tug at the edge of the tape, ripping it off. She does her best to bite back the whimper that threatens to bleed out. Shit, that _hurt_.

"There we go," he rumbled, obviously satisfied. "Better now, right?"

Dillon opened and closed her mouth a few times, exercising the jaw he'd just threatened to break, in fear that this may be the last time she'll use it as she couldn't promise something stupid wouldn't slip out.

The man's expression grew sour and he hit one of the bars with his palm. "Ay! You can fuckin' _speak_ now, Chica!"

"I have nothing to say to you," she ground out, voice hoarse from the lack of use its had in however long she'd been tied up. "Except that I'm not _fucking_ American."

He seemed surprised for a moment, but it was quick to wash away. He glanced to her license and then back at her before smiling. "I _thought_ there was something _different_ about you. Yeah, yeah on the boat! Don't fucking **touch** me! It's a nice accent." He repeated the words she'd used, imitating her, breaking into more sickening laughter. "Boy you are somethin' _else_ aren't you. Got one hell of a fucking _kick_ apparently. Poor _Benny_ just hasn't been the same since your foot met his rib. Then again, maybe it's just been a while since a _beautiful woman_ has touched him." He trails off like last time into chuckling and for some reason Dillon feels like she's sat with a school boy.

"What do you want from me?" She snapped, not wanting silence to fall between them.

He looks to her, piercing green eyes so vibrant even in the dark. They possess a certain glint, looking into them is like spotting the snake that's about one second away from striking deadly venom into your veins. "Me? Profit."

"What do you mean?"

A few more moments of silent staring occur. He clears his throat and rises to his feet. "You look very expensive, Hermana. There's a lotta people who would wanna buy you, which is good! Means I'm not gonna have to shoot you and dump your body somewhere."

Pirates. They had to be. Her hands twist in their binds, knees lifted to her chest as she resists the urge to vomit once more. They were going to sell her, like some fucking slave! Would the same happen to Harrison and the others? "My friends!" She spluttered. "My friends. Where are they?"

"You don't gotta worry about those white boys any longer, Chica. They're gonna be sold, just like you."

She tore at the binds this time, twisting and turning her arms – only stopping when the agony set fire to her wrists. "Fuck!" She yelped. "Please, _please_ don't hurt them. You can't do this _please_ , this is so fucking **wrong** it's – please!"

He shook his head, his smile remaining. "This? This is the fucking _future_. You brought this on yourself. Should never have come vacation on my island, Hermana. I'm glad you _did_ though. We're gonna make a lotta money out of you."

"Please, please!" She begged, tears beginning to stream and fuck him if he judges her for it.

"Shh, sh, sh. Don't cry. It's _okay_ , it's okay. You see, I've got a lot of shit planned for _you_ , Dillon. We're gonna have a lot of fun together okay? Jus' you fuckin' wait." His expression is soft, eerily gentle compared to before. He watches her cry, empathetic at first glance but there's a lot of sadism riddled in with whatever **lies** she was seeing at that moment. Her card was stashed back into his pocket before he turned to leave. "Be _good_ , Hermana, or that fucking tape goes back on." And with that, he strode off into the dark, leaving her alone with a guard.

Her back ached, her arms burned, but most of all she just felt _ashamed_ of herself. To an outside eye, there was **nothing** she could've done to stop it. Nothing she could do right now to help anyone. But she still felt anger. Disappointment in herself. She wanted to help but she couldn't. Now? She was stuck here with this maniac. No escape. She was going to be sold onto some _sick fuck_ of a stranger and who knows what would happen to her _then_. The idea of being raped, beaten, maybe even killed by bare hands – a sob escaped her.

"Ey! You shut the _fuck_ up!" the guard barked at her.

No sincerity. No nothing. They were just cold-hearted assholes and she didn't know why she expected any _different_. She thought over her previous interaction with the pirate. How gentle he'd seemed, at _times_. An enigma of a man, harsh and changing, he was so unpredictable. Maybe it was just a show. Some sexist mockery or something. She hadn't really interacted with the other pirates enough to know, but the guard certainly didn't show what the mohawk man did. His observations worried her. He'd called her a beautiful woman, complimented her accent, said she was something else, that her jaw was pretty, that she made her name work. A chill danced up her spine and she bared her teeth in frustration. There really was nothing she could do but sit here. She could try to break free – to escape, but she knew there'd be no point. If the guard beside her didn't catch her, the mohawk guy undoubtedly _would_. Besides, sure she could defend herself – to a degree – but running through unknown territory with fuck knows how many pirates patrolling it? **Insanity**.

Exhaustion amplified the ache in her muscles, the pirate's touch still a phantom sensation against her skin as she slumped against the bars and her eyes closed, attempting to block out this living hell she'd woken up in. Maybe it was all just a nightmare.


	3. The Promise

"Holy _shit_ Dillon! These are – **wow** ," Harrison gawped as he flicked through the photos she'd taken.

"They're _wow_ are they?" Dillon grinned, playfully snatching the camera from her friend. Harrison was one of the few, if not the _only_ person she trusted enough to hold it. It wasn't really a matter of trust regarding theft or clumsiness though, more that it meant a lot to her, was part of her heart, and of course one only handed _those_ pieces out to those _deserving_ of them.  
Harrison had always been there for her. Even when her father – _passed_. He'd stuck by her side, seen her through bad relationships, kept her going. It wasn't uncomfortable though. Undoubtedly, here and there, feelings for each other had become _more_ than **just** friends, but they'd promised not to go further with it, because they were both a certain way, and that way – for _now_ at least – was to remain single. Dillon had her flings but could never _commit_ to anything. She was a loving girl, don't mistake that as a suggestion that she was a _jerk_. Dillon used to put everything into relationships, but after she lost her father everything became so complicated. It's like that one thing that hurts you so bad, you stop allowing yourself to be vulnerable ever again. Harrison discouraged it, but he _understood_ it, and it was this that kept them close.

"Have you shown those to anyone?" He inquired, trying to continue viewing over her shoulder, giving up when she closed the screen.

"I've shown them to _you_ ," she shrugged.

"I meant someone who _knows_ shit about photography, Dee. Like a fellow photographer or a company who deals with that type of stuff, I don't know. An _agent_?"

Dillon snorted. "An agent?!"

"Yes!" Harry exclaimed. "You know, those people that help hook you up with opportunities? Suggest your work and what not?"

She rolled her eyes. "Harry, I really don't think it's _that_ good I –"

"You never think _anything_ you do is good." It was a statement, more than anything. Dillon always shut positivity towards her work down. She didn't have low self-esteem, but often wasn't proud until she was truly _happy_ with her work. Let's just say, that _rarely_ happened.

"I _do_!" She scoffed. "Just – when I _feel_ like it."

Harrison only laughed in response.

"I'm serious! And _this_ time just so happens to **not** be _one_ of those times!"

"You, Dee, are a _strange_ kid. I'm going to make sure you _get_ there though."

"Get where?"

"Your destiny!"

* * *

Something wet touching the side of her face woke her. Slimy and cold, it nudged her cheek inquisitively. Eyes flitted open and she found herself face to _muzzle_.

Realising she was awake, the _Pitbull_ beside her began growling, the sound slowly growing until it was barking. Jaws gnashed together, drool spattering across her cheek as it attempted to push its head between the bamboo bars.  
Terror rocked her to wide eyed silence as she stared at the sharp canines closing in for her jugular. Her body reacted before anything else could, shifting her to the side so her foot could come up and this was by far the most uncomfortable position she'd ever been in. Her hands were still tied, the rope cutting in even more now though the pain had faded, numbed during her sleep, allowing her to be _unhealthily_ flexible. Her foot rose and she kicked hard, connecting with the dog's nose because a sharp cry rang out before the dog ran away.

Dillon lay there, limp against the bars. She was still exhausted, even after fuck knows how many hours of sleep she'd had. Hours, because the sun was now up, threatening to burn through any skin exposed to it. Carefully, she shifted herself back into her last position. It was then that she noticed the new cage beside hers, except this time, there's was someone _alive_ inside it.

Moments passed before Dillon had calmed, finally capable of some form of speech. " _Hey_ ," she whispered, voice even more hoarse this time. It was another woman inside the other cage, older than Dillon judging by her appearance. Her hair seemed to be black, rich and full, hanging free down her back. Tan skin, like the pirate's suggested she wasn't American or English, but then again, how could you really tell. Either way, she was also a victim of abduction. "Hey!" Dillon said again, with more force this time.

The woman lifted her head weakly, her mouth also uncovered. She looked to Dillon, eyes clearly tired.

"How long have you been here?" Dillon asked.

"About – about two hours," the other replied.

So Dillon had been asleep for more than two hours. That was the most information she'd received in _however_ long. "What's your name?"

"Amora," the woman rasped. "And – yourself?"

"Dillon. I'm Dillon." She didn't want to come across as too much, but it was so good to see a friendly face again. She didn't know this woman, so friendly might not necessarily be true, but anything was better than the pirates, right?

"That's – that's a nice name."

Her accent was also like the pirate's. Spanish sounding. "Amora, how did you get here?"

There's a pause. "I've been here for a while," she admits.

Dillon's brows rose. "How long?"

"I – I don't know." Amora gives a gentle sob. "More than a few days. I lost track of time. They were keeping me somewhere – somewhere else. Said they were having issues with the man that wanted to buy me, and so they moved me here."

The question begged to be asked, where _is_ **here**? But Amora seemed to be struggling and Dillon didn't want to stress her out too much. At all, if she could avoid such.

"I take it you haven't been here long," Amora turns her gaze back to the floor.

"I think – maybe a day? I was out when I arrived, but I don't know how long for."

"Sí, you are young?"

She hadn't been expecting that question. Why? Did she _look_ young? "I'm uh, twenty-three."

"I am twenty-nine."

Six years older and she too is being put through this shit? It wasn't an overwhelming gap but enough to make her wonder about the other ages being trafficked. The concept of teenagers, even children going through this – she felt nauseous again. "How did you – what brought you here?"

There was a longer pause this time, Dillon figured she was stepping on thin ice. After all, thinking about her friends and what **had** been is _not_ something she wanted to do right now.

"I came here with my husban' an' some of our friends. We visited the island and they _took_ us."

Dillon couldn't keep her expression from creasing into a frown. No one deserved this. "Do you – do you know what happened? To your husband?"

"They killed him in front of me." The reply was immediate, like she was going to tell her either way.

Dillon's frown tightened, her gaze glazing over as she stared at the other. This woman had witnessed the cold-blooded murder of the man she loved, then she was locked away to cope _alone_. "I'm so sorry," was all Dillon could muster. How were you supposed to comfort someone who'd experienced that? She'd also been sitting on it for however many days she'd been caged away too.

"Vaas," Amora muttered.

Dillon's fingers twitched in thought. "Sorry?"

" _He_ killed him. _Vaas_ was the one that killed my husban'."

She didn't know who Vaas was. Then again, she didn't know any of the pirates' names. The pirate she'd spoken to had mentioned someone called Benny, but aside from that she didn't have a clue. This Vaas, she could tell from the struggle in Amora's tone, he would _pay_. Dillon gritted her teeth, so exposed to the real world and disgusted by how well it _hid_ itself. The world is fucked up, but it's nothing compared to what lurks within the undergrowth. "You need to get some rest, Amora. I don't imagine you've had much?"

Amora gave a weak shake of her head.

"I'll keep watch whilst you sleep."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course. We need to – watch each other's backs. You're all I have right now."

"Gracias, Dillon. When I wake, we will switch, sí?"

"Deal." There was a smile that touched the corners of her lips, faint, but there. Even just having a conversation felt like a luxury in the current situation. The company was required if she was to get through this, although she couldn't see it in her future, she had to remain hopeful. Because there was someone other than just _herself_ to care for now.

The heat was getting to her, the lack of fluid in her systems a partner in crime. The two together made her queasy with every movement, made her muscles numb and her brain _hurt_. Anxiety growing over when she'd next need to relieve her bladder and how she was supposed to go about that, what with being tied up. A familiar sound caught her hearing and she listened. Boots scuffing against the dirt, rounding the corner and she straightened against the pole because slumping made her feel even more tired, and if it was the pirate she thought it was, she needed to be somewhat lucid to deal with him.

She sees the red flash of clothing first, blue gaze travelling over his form, subconsciously lingering upon muscles before reaching his face. It was the man with the mohawk, wearing a smile Dillon wanted to wipe right off. She considered it, whether she had the power to do such a thing. What with his quick changing temper, she pondered whether she could manipulate his feelings – if he had any. He appeared to be interested in her somehow, should she test it?

"I would've come sooner," he stated, "but I had to deal with some _business_." Smug, his lips twitched, and Dillon had to question whether his choice of words were _intentional_ , to make him sound like a _busy man_ or something.

She remained silent, however, honestly uncertain of how to respond to that. Yippee? Thanks for coming by? No, if anything, she wanted to tell him how _little_ he was missed, but her bladder dawned on her, and she really didn't want to go where she was.

"Really? No good afternoon? No hello?" If she didn't know any better, he sounded _disappointed_.

So, it was the afternoon? Good to know. Still silent, she hoped she could provoke more of a reaction. Many animals get frustrated and give up if they can't get a response, but this guy seemed the opposite. It only fuelled the concept of a _challenge_ for him.

"I'm gonna get pissy if you do the silent treatment with me, Chica, it's fucking _bullshit_."

She'd hold off longer, but she was concerned he'd start shouting and Amora needed to rest. " _What_?" She bit back.

The pirate lowers himself into a squat. "You know, you've got some _attitude_ problems, Chica, but I'm going to overlook that right now okay?" She feels like she's being scolded, his aura like a cloud of smoke, blinding you – throwing you off. "There's been a lot of interest in you."

"There _has_?"

He laughs. "You sound surprised?"

The compliment flies straight over her head as she delves into her thoughts. She _genuinely_ was. Dillon had always been a pretty girl, complimented often. Many of the guys at her school had shown interest in her. She was what many considered the perfect girl. She was talented, pretty, had an attractive voice and laugh, had nice hair and on top of that had fantastic grades. Still, she never really acknowledged it. Never used it to her _advantage_. She just made friends with the three guys who looked _beyond_ her appearance and got to know her for who she was. Why _is_ she surprised though? If there were more like the pirates, sick fucks who were in search of slaves, then of course she of all people would be top priority. Petite, white, young and pretty. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Entertainment," he's quick to respond. "But in all seriousness, just to warn you, the sickest fucks tend to bid the highest."

"You would know," She spat, "I bet you're one of them."

Leering, the pirate's eyes sparked as bandaged hands wrapped around one of the bars. "Do you _want_ me t' be one, Chica?" Taunting a tiger in its cage, were she not tied at the wrists she'd probably try something that would be liable to getting her killed.

"I want you to burn in hell." Yep, there she goes.

She doesn't know who the fuck is watching over her, but the other only laughs at her words. He doesn't snap at her, doesn't lash out. That alone stuns her back into silence.

"The world is a combination of heaven an' hell," he began. "There is no after life, no _up or down_. That's what we're living, right in this _very_ second, Hermana. Life is – that final judgement, spread out over however _fucking_ long we live for. Depending on the choices we make, it can be _either_ heaven or hell. Whatever _exaggerations_ you've heard about them are fuckin' rumours. This _here_? Is **hell** to you people. But me? I'm **thriving**." His voice is raised louder this time and he raises his arms to the sky. "I am _fucking_ thriving!"

Enigma was indeed the correct label for this guy. He clearly had some sort of complex, keeping him in a perfectly protected circle of _denial_. This was hell, **full stop**. There was no justification. She didn't give a fuck about religious beliefs right now. This man before her was excusing his insanity.

"If you say so," she muttered, somewhat scared of the man. Things were _happening_ inside that skull of his, things she already _knew_ would keep her up at night.

"Do you not believe me, Hermana?"

"Dillon," she corrected bitterly. "It's Dillon. Why do you insist on calling me Hermana? I'm not your fucking sister!"

He seemed taken back by her outburst. That's the most he'd gotten out of her so far. She'd spat back like a wild cat and for a moment, he worries his wound exposes itself – _I'm not your fucking sister_! "No," he agrees. "You're fuckin' not. But seeing as you're at _my_ fucking mercy, I'm going to call you whatever the **fuck** I want." Too defensive, he dials it back down to a friendly smile. "Can I do anything to make your stay here more comfortable, Princesa?"

Princesa. Because that's _better_. Ignoring the nicknames, Dillon does her best not to blush as she considers what she wants to ask him. "I um—"

"What is it?" He presses.

"I really need to uh – _relieve_ myself…" She goes silent again. It's not embarrassing, the fact that she needs to pee, but it's more having to ask _him_ for _help_. Having to ask for _anything_ from her captor, it was humiliating.

The other is quiet too, though only for a moment before he springs back to his full height. It was only her and Amora there, and the latter was asleep. She wondered if he could just let her out, or if there was someone he had to check with. Did the pirates have a boss? "Normally I'd tell you to just piss yourself, but I'm feeling _generous_ today," he grins, pulling keys from his belt.

Generous. Oh, thank you for not _making_ me piss myself. What a fucking gentleman.

Nonetheless, he unlocks the door and opens it, before crawling inside. Terror grasps her by the ankle and starts yanking because he's coming closer. His arms extend above her head, muscular body hovering over her and she wants to kick out, strike him in the gut but she knows that'd only make him angry.

He slips a knife from his belt and she can't help but wriggle beneath him, attempting to scramble away but again, she's stuck in place.

"Would you fuckin' calm your _tits_ , Chica, I'm _just_ cutting the rope." As promised, the blade makes contact with the bloodied rope and quick work of it too.

"You could've just done this on the outside!" Dillon growled, suddenly very claustrophobic.

" _Could've_ ," the other hums in response, cutting through the last threads of rope, sending Dillon's arms down to her sides. At first, she realises just how numb they are, all sense of touch gone, but it doesn't take long for the burn to take hold, biting into her muscles and slicing right down to her bruised and shredded wrists.

Only a high-pitched squeal left her along with some muttered ' _fuck_ 's as she wrapped her arms across her chest and hugged herself. The pain refused to ease, the acrobatics she'd performed earlier to avoid the dog now enforcing the consequences.

The man looming above her took one of her hands. She tried to withdraw from his touch, but it was too painful. She could barely hold her arms up for long enough anyway. He was dangerously gentle, and it only made Dillon angrier. How could someone so _fucked up_ be so lenient. It's a caring touch, finger tips grazing her wrists, stopping when she flinches. **No**! Not caring! This guy is a murderer! He's _not_ stable! And yet, she finds herself leaning towards him, allows him to pull her out from the cage and she's once more shocked by just how weak she is, her legs giving way beneath her. The anxiety of the whole situation most likely only made things worse.

 _Get a hold of yourself_ , her conscience hissed. She was relying on this killer far too much. Not to mention how vulnerable she was making herself by letting him lead her. Muscles trembled as she gained her footing, placing a hand against the pirate's chest before she gave him a shove, which was more like a soft nudge. "Don't _touch_ me," she warned. "I've _got_ this."

He backed up slightly, hands raised along with a knowing smirk. "Alright, _alright_. Just over there, on your right," he advised, nodding towards a patch of grass. Absolutely humiliating, she felt like a _dog_.

Slowly, Dillon made her way over to the grass, stumbling every now and then but avoided any further physical contact with the _asshole_. Once she got there, she reached for the belt of her shorts but stopped when she found the other to be watching her. "Um? Can you turn around or something?"

"Are you asking me to do tricks, Chica?"

"I'm asking you to give me some fucking _privacy_."

He hesitates, fingers twitching irritably at her attitude but he turns away, checking his peripheral every few seconds to make sure she didn't try and run. She wouldn't get far, but he didn't want his men to be aware of a failure like that. Fuck that. "You'd better piss and that's it, Chica. Don't try anything fucking stupid."

In the time he'd turned, she'd crouched and relieved herself. She was surprised she'd only needed to go now and not before, but she'd guessed it was due to how little she'd drank. Whatever was in her system was being sucked back up because nothing new was coming in. She felt guilty for not being able to care for her body.  
Sighing, she pulled her shorts up and stepped to the pirate's side, ignoring any attempt he made to steady her as she stumbled back to the cage. Granted, it was a disgusting death trap, but it was better than whatever the island's jungle held for her. She slipped in, scooting to the back before raising her arms.

He looked at her, still for a moment as though he was considering something. "Put your arms down," he said.

" _What_?" Of course she was confused, there was _no way_ he'd leave her untied!

"I said put your fucking arms down, Hermana."

"I don't understand. Why?" Was she seriously questioning this? Thank you, Mr Pirate!

"Like I said. I'm feeling fucking generous." He pauses, meeting her gaze. The green is hypnotic, psychotic for sure but the colour itself was something she'd never seen. "I'll be _right_ fucking back, **don't** try anything." He disappeared off around the corner and Dillon sat silent, perplexed by what the fuck had just happened. He just left her, completely free? Okay so she was still locked in the cage but with her arms untied she was certain she could find some way of freeing herself. It really wasn't long before the other returned, a cup in one hand and a thin towel in the other. He opened the gate and stepped inside, making sure to close it behind him. The keys were re-attached to his belt before he approached her space within the cage.  
Dillon shifted, considering all options. She could kick out, grab the keys and run? Maybe even lock him in if she was quick enough? But then she'd have to have time to unlock Amora's cage and free her too because there was no way her conscience would let her live with _leaving her_. It was all too risky, and if they were caught? He might kill Amora as punishment or even her friends. She couldn't let _her_ stupidity be the cost of another's life. Remaining seated, she studied the pirate's every move. He sat, crossing his legs, dropping the towel onto his left thigh. His free hand reached out for one of Dillon's and she hesitated.

"I'm not going to _bite_ you, Chica," he reassured. There's a twitch in his lips. "Not unless you want me to."

"What are you going to do?" She asked.

"Just fucking give me a hand and I'll show you."

Hoping the shake in her right hand wasn't too obvious, she slowly moved it in his direction. He took her thumb in his grip, securing that part of her hand before tipping half of the cup's contents onto her wrist. The cup was placed onto the floor, exchanged for the towel which she soon found to be damp. He dabbed it across her skin, and although it burned, she realised his intentions. To clean the rope burn. Had she not twisted around so much, it wouldn't be as bad as it was, but now she could clearly see how much blood was being washed away and she's grateful he was treating the wounds before she got septicaemia and possibly _died_. Another shit way to _go_.

Dillon stayed quiet, hissing at the pain every so often as he cleaned the wounds. Once the other had finished, he manoeuvred himself back to the outside of the cage, locking the door behind him.

"… _Thanks_ …" she muttered, entirely unsure of how to feel. How come he hadn't cleaned Amora's wounds? "Are you – are you leaving me like this?" She asked, holding her arms out to suggest that she'd not been tied back up.

" **Don't** make me _regret_ it," he ordered, and before she had time to respond, he left, leaving her alone with her, _even more so now_ , troubled thoughts again.

An hour had passed, the sun gradually fading, the sound of gunfire distant, carried closer by the deceptive breeze. The smell of blood had clogged her nose since she'd arrived and could be ignored now, her stomach had hardened just that little bit more. Amora woke with a start, breathless, she turned to check on Dillon and gasped to find her moving freely about the cage.

"Dillon!" She rasped.

Dillon only smiled in response, her thoughts still fogged. Even with all the time she had to just _sit and think_ , it still wasn't enough to process everything happening to her.

"You are free? _How_ are you free? The binds! They're gone? I don't understand!"

How the fuck was she supposed to explain _that_? It was more than likely that the pirate had helped her for _another_ reason, not because he was being _generous_. If she told Amora, it might make her jealous. Angry that Dillon didn't ask for Amora to be freed too. Maybe Amora would lecture her about _interacting_ with the pirate. God, she really didn't need **that** right now.

"One of the pirates cut me loose," she admitted. "He told me if I behaved, he'd let me stay like this." It wasn't a lie, merely selecting _what_ information to give out. Amora didn't need to _know_ about everything else that had happened. Although, she did feel terribly alone with it all. The weight that this pirate clearly had some sort of obsession with her. Even being aware that she'd somehow piqued his interest **scared** her. She was vulnerable. Amora already provided a _motherly_ vibe, one that made her feel safe – though that wouldn't take much in a place like the one she was being kept prisoner in.

"This is –" Amora hesitated, looking Dillon over, studying just how much freedom she had before grinning. It was a _real_ grin, one full of hope and that's something Dillon had been _desperate_ to see. "This is _great_!"

"It is?" Dillon wasn't following. Maybe because Amora wasn't entirely on the same page as she was.

"Sí! Because now, when the time is right, we can _escape_!"

Escape!? How!? To where!? They'd have to loot some of the pirates' belongings and even _then_ – it all seemed so risky.  
Her conscience laughed hysterically. _What are you talking about_? You **have** to escape! What about your friends?

Her _friends_. They hadn't crossed her mind for a couple of hours. She felt guilty, because they were all she _should_ be thinking about.

"How are we supposed to go about that?" Dillon inquired.

Amora shifted in her binds, attempting to angle herself towards Dillon to address her. "We will find a way for you to escape your cage. Then, you can unlock mine and we can escape this camp. _We'll find a way_."

Hope was something that had drifted from Dillon's mind. She'd set herself up for failure, prepared for the worst because she'd lost sight of what the point of an escape was. Amora reminded her. Brought her back to reality. She was incredibly _thankful_ for that.

Time continued to pass, Dillon drifting in and out of sleep, but the two mainly conversed, discussing their lives, their backgrounds and hobbies.

"You do photography?" Amora had asked, following on from the mention of Dillon having a camera.

Dillon recoiled slightly at the question. Her camera was lost to her. She had no idea where it was, or if she'd ever get it back. "Yeah," she uttered.

"Are you good?"

Hah. If she had the energy, she'd laugh at the question. "My friend Harrison, he insisted I am."

Amora stopped, her expression showing that she was choosing her words carefully. "This Harrison, did you come here with him?"

"I did."

" _We will find him_ , Dillon. I'm going to make sure we find _all_ of your friends."

Dillon smiled. "The same with yours."

"Sí. I pray that they are safe."

Though it was so unlikely. Dillon mentally slapped her wrist. This was her problem. Pessimist.

I'm a _realist_ , her conscience argued, but Dillon recognised her negative thinking. She had to snap out of that if she wanted to survive.

Dillon had managed to drift back to sleep, head resting against the corner of the bars. She would've slept lying down, but was disgusted by the idea that she might press her face into the blood and – no, no. She was good with the corner. Eventually, she woke again, evening upon them, signified by the looming indigo canvas. Would each passing day be a mere déjà vu?  
She didn't wake by _choice_ , however. She was woken by a voice, a familiar one at that. She glances to Amora, noticing that the other's gaze is directed in the opposite direction. Dillon follows her gaze, spotting her the pirate beside the empty cage – but it was no longer empty. What looked like two men occupied the space, their arms tied and their mouths taped over. The pirate was talking to them, his voice perfectly audible from where she was, so she listened.

"I like this phone. This is a _nice_ fucking phone! So, what do we have here? Grant-" He whistles, followed by a tongue click. "-and Jason. From California huh? _Huh_? Well I hope your mama and your papa really, _really_ love you, because you two white boys you look very _expensive_ , and that's good because I _like_ expensive things."

Dillon felt sweat beading at her temples. She realised, right now, she would witness more of the pirate. A side she _hadn't_ seen. The _testosterone_ side, the one she'd witnessed with Felipe on the boat with her boys. She'd already guessed the men got treated **rougher** than the women, something about _who's dick is bigger_. He liked expensive things. Well now _there's_ a surprise.

One of the men, the one nearer to her, throws some muffled words – she's got a _fair_ idea of what they _are_. Then, like he'd heard her inner thoughts, the pirate lashes out.

"I'm sorry what did you say? _What did you say_?" His voice raises, aggressive and violent and Dillon finds her back pressed to the bars behind her. "Did you want me to _slice_ you open like I did your friend? _Shut the fuck up_ , okay!? I'm the one with the fucking dick! Look at me. Look me in the fucking eye." From crouch to his full height, the pirate looms over the bound man, his head through the bars of the cage. "Ay! You _fuck_! Look me in the eye! You're my bitch. I rule this fucking kingdom. Shut the fuck up, or you die."

Terror swallows her whole. _Slice you open like I did your friend_. This guy, the one who only a few hours ago had been ever so gently cleaning her wounds, his touch so – so fucking _caring_. Partly, she felt betrayed. Lied to. Like every interaction she had with him was a façade to make him _look good_. Well he _didn't_. This guy was a lunatic. He was _crazy_ , violent and aggressive. His voice echoes in her mind, his touch ghosting over her jawline. ' _Don't make me break this pretty jaw, Hermana'_. He could snap like a twig, snapping _her_ like a twig at the same time. The lack of stability made her fear for their next interaction.

"What is it Jason? Jason, what is it?" He continues, now approaching the other man. "Why aren't you laughing now like you did up there? What, is this not fun anymore? Have I failed to entertain you?" His speech is fast, giving no one time to interrupt and Dillon finds herself intrigued. This guy seemed to be the kind who had a monologue prepared.

"You see, the thing is, up there? You thought you had a chance. Way up in the fucking skies you thought you had your finger on the pussy trigger. But Hermano, down here … down here …" his right hand is rubbed against the ground, picking up dirt. He raises it to eye level, allowing the dirt to drop from his fist, watching as it showers back down. "- you hit the ground. It's okay! I'm gonna chill, I'm gonna relax because you, moi –" his finger points to the other guy, accompanied by another whistle. "–and your tough guy brother, we're gonna have a lot of fun together while we wait for the money."

She starts to wonder about the whole _waiting for money_ thing, if that's why she and Amora were still there, but her thoughts are interrupted, as is the pirate. It's a South African accent, the roll of his r's clear as day but Dillon is caught off guard. Who _is_ this guy? Not only that, but his words cause her to freeze.

"Vaas! Stop scaring the hostages, I need you to take care of the rejects!" The new voice is fitted to a suited figure, but that's all she sees before he's gone.

Whoever he was, he'd called the pirate Vaas. A chill bites down her spine, the hairs on her neck standing to attention. Vaas was the name of the – the guy who – he – Amora's – oh _god_.

At least she had a name for him now. Eyes wide, she watches Vaas turn to leave, saying his goodbyes to the other victims before reaching for the guard's _man-zone_ , as she called it. "Gets you every fucking time man," Vaas states. So that was a game he played? He's a guy, she can't say she's surprised. It's internal monologue though, because on the outside, she's a deer in the headlights. He passes her, his peripheral vision catching her shocked blue hues before he turns and leaves, swagger in his stride. She feels violated. That a disgusting menace like that had laid dirty hands on her. His hands had other's blood on them. Innocent people's blood! Amora's husband's blood and – her palms meet the floor and she can't keep herself from retching this time, choking on the lack of _anything_ coming up. Amora's attention had apparently snapped back to Dillon, seeing as she was now calling out to her.

"Dillon! Are you okay?"

"Fucking disgusting bitch," the guard mused loudly.

I need you to take care of the rejects. The rejects? Who were they? It was pretty self-explanatory, but she didn't want to believe it. Unwanted people, being _dealt_ with. Her mind flipped to Amora's husband. "Was he – was he one of the rejects?" Dillon uttered, turning her gaze over to the other.

Amora only nodded.

"Fuck," Dillon choked, wiping her mouth as she scooted back, as far as she could from the small amount of vomit she'd produced. Movement caught her eye, a distraction, and she looked over to the newly occupied cage. The man Vaas had shouted at was free and in the process of untying the other guy. "Look," Dillon mouthed at Amora, pointing to the cage. The older woman turned her head, eyes widening at the sight. The two men were talking, rushed conversation before they shuffled back to their previous positions, hands held above their heads. What Dillon witnessed next was pure improvisation. One of the men called out to the guard, causing the asshole to approach.

"The fuck? Eh! You guys shut the fuck up!"

In the blink of an eye, the other guy lashed out, grabbing at the guard's head, slamming it several times into the bamboo bars. Dillon pulled her knees to her chest, the sight more brutal than she'd been expecting. She felt nauseous again, her thoughts sadistic. He fucking _deserved_ it. She felt **relieved** by the sight. It wasn't right, but she wanted to _cheer_. To _thank_ the man. "Holy _shit_ ," she breathed.  
The gate was then unlocked and kicked open. The two guys crawled out into the open and Dillon tapped the bars of her cage to quietly get their attention. One of the men, who wore a red t-shirt, continued on, more concerned about his plus one than the two women. The one in blue, however, glanced over at her. He met her eyes for just a moment, his own wide with terror and she could relate, but her stomach dropped when he turned away and continued on with red top. Dillon's brows rose and she looked to Amora who's expression revealed as much confused disappointment as she imagined hers did. "What the fuck!" She hissed out to the others who quickly disappeared out of sight. "What the _fuck_!?"

"Every man for himself," Amora mumbled, hushed.

"What the actual **fuck**!" Dillon snarled. "Are you fucking _kidding_ me? They just fucking _blanked_ us!"

Amora shook her head, but didn't encourage Dillon's aggression.

"I want out of this _fucking_ cage. What the **fuck** , Amora? Why the _fuck_ would they do that? Fucking **assholes**!" She's not used to swearing this much, but she's mentally exhausted and honestly? Bad language was the only thing she'd been hearing for the last twenty-four _plus_ hours.

Dillon fell quiet, still in disbelief at what had just happened. A gunshot rang out through the air, followed by another and she jumped, hitting the back of her head on the bars. The throbbing pain was back, fire across her aching skull and she'd almost forgotten about _that_. Maybe it had been healing and she fucking _knocked_ it again. "Ah!" She cried out, grasping for the back of her head, trying to keep still like last time. Another gunshot was fired, and she looked to Amora. Had they discovered the men? She noticed that Amora was paler than she remembered, her lips quivering, tears dripping from her eyes and Dillon blinked, shocked. The rejects! She'd forgotten Vaas was dealing with them and – that was the sound of them being shot _dead_. One final gunshot was heard, followed by dogs barking. An anger sparked within her, over how the two men had just left them. Ignored them. It was wrong, but a part of her? A flaring flame, hoped they'd come to regret it. Hoped karma would come knocking for them.

Minutes passed, and apparently the gunshots hadn't ended, because there was another. Distant shouting, commotion, and then the perimeter came to life with the sound of helicopters, gunfire and dogs barking. She guessed that the men had been found, though the continuous, violent sound erupting from the camp suggested death hadn't come yet. A dark hunger inside of her hoped it _would_.  
Cerulean hues were cast to the side, catching Amora's gaze, giving her a brisk nod.  
"It's just _you_ and **me** ," she promised.


End file.
